She glances toward the sketches I left out. “What’s this one for?”
“Custom order,” I say. “The family wants cedar paneling, oak finish. Old money.”
Her lips curve again, softer this time. “You talk about caskets like some people talk about diamonds.”
I shrug. “Both cost a fortune; both last forever.”
She laughs, low and warm, and I feel it in my chest. Not the sound itself—but the fact that she’s standing here, drinking wine in my kitchen, laughing while leaning against the counter, and I’m letting her.
We drift to the living room without talking about it, wine glasses in hand, her shoulder brushing mine every few steps. I tell myself it’s just the space between us, that my house isn’t that big. She takes the couch instead of the chair. I tell myself it’s nothing, even when her arm stretches along the back cushion, fingertips almost brushing my hair.
“You’re staring again,” she says, not looking at me.
“Yeah,” I admit.
She hums low, not quite approval, not quite defiance. When her eyes finally meet mine, they hold steady, deliberate, assessing, like she’s daring to see how far she can push before I draw the line.
Neither of us moves. The air between us feels thick; if I leaned forward an inch too far, we’d end up somewhere we couldn’t walk back from.
Her gaze dips to my mouth and back so quickly I almost convince myself I imagined it.
Then she breaks it, casually, like nothing’s shifted, picking up one of my sketchbooks from the table. She flips it open, skimming page after page, pausing now and then like she’s memorizing the lines.
“You put yourself into these,” she says, not asking. “More than you realize.”
Her voice is softer, but the weight of it lingers. I don’t answer. I’m too busy wondering why I don’t want her to leave. The air shifts. Heavier. Closer.
Her fingers linger on the back of the couch, and before I realize it, I’m leaning in. She mirrors me, slow but certain, until the space between us is no longer safe but trembling. Our mouths are a breath apart, close enough that I can feel the heat of her exhale mingle with mine.
The front door creaks open. Laughter filters down the hall—Blythe and Ansel.
We both jolt back at once, her glass clinking too loudly as she sets it on the table. I straighten against the cushion, heart racing, pretending the air between us isn’t still charged, pretending my lips don’t still feel the shape of something that never landed.
Ansel rounds the corner first, her eyes flicking between us. Blythe follows, quieting mid-sentence as her gaze catches the distance that still feels like no distance at all. Neither of them says a word, but the silence stretches long enough that it might as well be.
Elaine is the first to move, lifting her glass and taking a slow sip like nothing happened. Her expression is calm, practiced, almost bored—but her eyes don’t meet mine.
Ansel raises a brow but lets it go. Blythe gives me a look I can’t quite read.
Elaine sets her glass on the table with deliberate care, the sound too loud in the quiet room. She stands, smoothing her skirt like it’s just another evening, just another visit. Ansel is already halfway up the stairs, and Blythe disappears into the kitchen, but the air hasn’t reset—it clings, heavy, like everyone knows what almost happened.
At the door, Elaine pauses with her hand on the frame. She finally looks at me, her expression unreadable, practiced calm wrapped too tight.
“You’re staring again.”
Donovan
The screen door bangs behind me, and before I can even set my bag down, my little sister launches herself at me, arms tight around my waist.
“Novan!” she squeals, already tugging me toward the couch where cartoons are blaring too loudly.
I laugh, pressing my nose against her cheek. “Miss me, Bug?”
“Uh-huh. You goneforever.”
“Not forever,” I murmur, tightening my hold around her.
Dad’s in his chair, the same one he’s had since I was a kid, pretending to read the paper. His wife, Vanessa, is in the kitchen, already fussing with a plate of food like she’s been waiting for me.
